


Of The Fall of Minas Tirith

by morwen_of_gondor



Series: The History of the White Tree [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (kinda), Fall of Gondolin, Fourth Age, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Maglor Through Middle-Earth History?, Minas Tirith, Minor Character Death, Pastiche, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor
Summary: For ten thousand years Minas Tirith has stood against the darkness, and her kings have fought beside the kings of Rohan, but no realm can last forever. Hope, however, is not tied to cities, and it is prophesied that the line of Luthien will never end.
Series: The History of the White Tree [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564612
Kudos: 25





	Of The Fall of Minas Tirith

_A king with golden hair sat in the seat of Minas Tirith, and in the White City a White Tree bloomed, in the aeons before Men had kingdoms of their own._  
_The Lord of Werewolves came to Minas Tirith, and the golden king was cast down and slain. He walked to meet his doom with his eyes open, and the songs remember him._  
_The Lord of Balrogs came to the White City. The White Tree burned in dragon-fire, and the King was crushed in his falling tower. And Gondolin and Minas Tirith passed into legend, remembered by the fleeing survivors who found refuge by the mouths of the Sea._

Ten kings times ten of the line of Aragorn Elessar sat in the seat of Isildur in Minas Tirith, the White City, and the White Tree bloomed. The moon shone in the fountain that played upon its branches, until, if there had yet been any in Middle-Earth who remembered the vanished light of the Trees, he might have said that it seemed as though Telperion’s light was rekindled, for the water-drops fell shining from the Tree’s branches like unto dews of silver light.

Tales whisper that there was one such still left. Mayhap he came to the White City, in memory of Gondolin that he had never seen. Mayhap he came to greet his granddaughter, or the woman who would gladly have called him such. Mayhap he wrote a song for the new White Tree that shone in the moonlight, while Queen Arwen listened and King Elessar the Glorious sat on the throne of his fathers. 

Strong and fair was the White City, and the Tower of Ecthelion gleamed in the sunlight like unto the Tower of Turgon, and the realm of the King flourished. But no kingdom of Men can last forever.

In the Tale of Kings were written ten names times ten and one when doom came again from the East, and Eldarion, second of his name, last king of Gondor, saw with clear sight and knew that his fate was come. He walked to meet his doom with his eyes open, and the songs remember him.

He sent his women and children away, far away, to the green vales hidden high in the mountains behind narrow passes. He sent away the Queen Altariel and their son, and put into his wife’s hand the only fruit that the White Tree had ever borne, and in that moment she knew they would not meet again. 

Then sent he messengers to Wiglaf King of Rohan, ever his friend in the hour of need, and set his hand to light the Beacon of Amon Din that would summon his people to the weapon-take.

There were no Balrogs left to trouble the world when the man who called himself the Mouth of Sauron mounted his attack on the last memory of Numenor and Gondolin the fallen, but there were other creatures of Morgoth, old and foul, that the ages had not all sufficed to slay, and the White City was in peril of dragon-fire once more. There were now no Nazgul to set poisonous fear into the hearts of the defenders, and the valour of Gondor shone bright against the last nightfall that their city would ever see. The walls of the Pelennor were repaired and manned, and great were the captains who held them: Damrod and Diriel of Ithilien, bowmen of the Rangers, younger sons of the line of Faramir the Wise. Their arrows were like to a swarm of hornets in the air, and many in the last army of the Black Numenoreans fell pierced by their keen shafts or ever they reached the wall. But the Mouth of Sauron had brought trolls and other beasts of great and fell strength, and the Orcs that were with him mined under the walls, and the Pelennor fell.

By the gates of the White City stood Ecthelion, Captain-General of the White Tower, and at his side stood Wiglaf of Rohan, and they saw flames leaping up in the fields, and knew that the outer defences were gone.

Swiftly then rode the cavalry of Rohan to the succour of the men of Gondor, and the survivors of the wall marched back to the City in order behind the screen of riders: but those who rode back were fewer, and Damrod and Diriel were slain.

Then the great gates of mithril and steel that were wrought by the Dwarf-folk of Gimli Elf-Friend for King Elessar the Glorious swung closed, and the siege was set.

Long the Black Numenoreans fired futile darts at the indomitable black walls, and long they received darts and rubble in return, and many fell. But their army was great, and the last of Morgoth’s fire-drakes was with them, and dragon-fire withered the mithril gate of the First Circle of the City, and the outer walls fell, and King Eldarion knew, as had King Finrod of old, that his Doom had come to greet him and he might not gainsay it. 

Though Gondor was fallen from her glory of old, still her strength was very great: though greater, perhaps, it had been long ago in the days of King Elessar, when they faced the Lord of Werewolves, and he was undone by a Halfling: and there was no vanished King from legend to bring a fleet up Anduin, and the riders of Rohan stayed penned within the City walls, and the folk of Dol Amroth were scattered or slain by the Corsairs of Umbar, who had found no army of the dead to halt them. Still the men of Gondor fought on, and there was more than men there with them: for songs have come of that fall that speak of great valour witnessed and honoured, and the handful of prisoners who escaped to refuge from the end spoke in whispers of a singer who could set terror in the hearts of his enemies with a chord, and raise up the hearts of his friends with a stanza: and they say that he fought with Gondor to the last, and laughed as he slew, saying that his Doom could do no more harm when he walked with those doomed already.

The valour of Gondor was not less great for the doom that faced her. Gate by gate her armies fought, alley-way by alley-way, and the last of the Black Numenoreans bled and swore and fell, and paid for every inch of the white stone they gained with many and many a sword-cut and many and many a corpse. But their army was great, and the last of Morgoth’s fire-drakes was with them, and the second gate fell. Up and up the battle thundered, like a wave of the rising sea, like the wave that had drowned Numenor of long ago, and the Men of the West had no power to stop it.

In the end, Wiglaf of Rohan unhorsed fought beside Eldarion of Gondor, and each stood before his banner-bearer, and they battled the enemy upon the very steps of the Tower of Ecthelion, as the White Tree burned. Wiglaf, they say, slew the dragon, driving his sword through its great mouth, though its fire withered his arms to the shoulder, and Eldarion cast down the Mouth of Sauron and rent in pieces his black banner marked with the Red Eye: but there was no man nigh them left to rally, and the dragon in its death-throes hurled down the Tower of Ecthelion, and the last Kings of Gondor and Rohan lie still entombed with their last foes beneath the white stone of the City they died to save. It is said that even in after years, when men forgot the very names of Minas Tirith, of Eldarion and Wiglaf, that evil things would not come nigh that great ridge of the mountains crowned with fallen stone.

But the story does not end.

Few indeed were the survivors of the fall of Minas Tirith, and they were survivors only for that they fell wounded and unconscious to wake after the battle ended. Minas Tirith boasted no cravens in her army. Many said that the strange singer led them safely through the camps of the enemy when they woke to find themselves defeated, and disguised them with songs that they might not be taken by the foe.

But many were those sent away ere the battle was joined: women and old men and children, wandering, lamenting the fall of their home. The Queen Altariel was a lady of great wisdom and stature, and often she had advised her husband in the matters of kingship: now she led her band of survivors to the havens of Dol Amroth. Many were the wanderers she gathered to herself there, and her son Elladan was with her, and she bore the fruit of the White Tree: and so the memory of Minas Tirith, the White City, passed into legend, remembered by the survivors who found refuge by the mouths of the Sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Taken alone, this depresses me thoroughly, but don't worry, I'm not quite done yet, and Queen Altariel has some tricks up her sleeve. (Also, I'm a sucker for somewhat happy endings.) I hope to start posting the next story in this series by the end of the week.
> 
> Also, virtual cookies to anyone who figures out why Wiglaf is named that.
> 
> I welcome any feedback that helps me improve my writing or plots, so if you see a mistake or something I could do better, please let me know!


End file.
